


Leather Bound

by theyseemerollins



Series: Bibliophiles [2]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, i hope you all enjoy, something to balance the utter nonsense, there's some plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 21:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18269936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyseemerollins/pseuds/theyseemerollins
Summary: Between terrible work assignments and a coworker that you despise, you’re just about ready to go completely insane.  The library is one of your remaining bastions of peace, until a man in a leather jacket and shit-eating grin gives you an idea you can’t shake, and throws said peace out the door.  But this could be a fantasy come true, couldn’t it?





	Leather Bound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MammothAmaryllis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MammothAmaryllis/gifts).



> More porn than plot. Significantly less plot than Roman's or Seth's, but there's a little. Completely not what I'd originally intended when looking at the scope of all 3 stories, but here we are! Also, I don't hate Corey (it's more of a love/hate thing), but I thought he'd be a good character to play the off-screen coworker. Part 2 of Bibliophiles (they read individually).

You slammed the lid of your laptop down, swearing viciously.

The internet had crashed again.

It didn’t seem to matter to the World Wide Web that you had four articles due in as many days.  Oh, no.  That you were a massive procrastinator just now beginning research on the more elaborate of your assignments didn’t faze the internet gods in the least.

You snorted ruefully into your arms.  Shitty data plan.  Shitty location.  Shitty time management.

You lifted your head back up from your kitchen table and looked around the spacious room.  Huge, blooming magnolias swayed gently in breeze whisking through your backyard, bringing the smell of lilac bushes and other flowering shrubs in through the open French doors.  You sneered at the idyllic scenery.  The price you paid for living in a blissfully isolated paradise.

Today you’d rather have internet.

You held back a martyred sigh and trudged to the back office.  Perhaps if you were kind to it, the router would right itself and you could go back to combing new sites, databases, and Instagram.

You checked over the wires and hummed soothingly at the little machine, willing the bars to light up.  They didn’t.

“Fucking waste of money,” you spat hatefully.  You eyed one of your huge dictionaries, debating technological homicide.  You shook your head.  Whatever its problem was today, it’d work like a gem tomorrow.  “Get to live another day,” you told it pointedly.

Back out in the kitchen you unplugged your laptop and shoved it into your backpack.  Just before you grabbed your keys, your cell dinged.

**brass wanting those articles**

You screamed at the ceiling, startling your cat out from under the table.  Gatsby eyed you with considerable malice. 

You muttered an apology before shooting off a reply to your coworker.

**Yes, I know.  Ahead of schedule.  Just want to send all of them in together.**

A blatant lie, but how would Graves know?

**tick tock.**

“Fucking dick,” you growled at your phone before throwing it into the bag.  You tugged the straps onto your shoulders and then closed your eyes.  Breathing deep, you searched for your Zen mode before taking on the task of driving.  Gatsby meowed skeptically.

You looked down at the orange tabby and forced a grin.  “Library trip!”

 

The journey to the library was less rage-filled than you would have guessed.  The half hour drive was actually fairly soothing, since little was happening in the way of traffic in the middle of the afternoon.

Your ire was swift to return, however, when you realized all the desktops were taken, and your usual table by the front window on the first floor was littered with small children and their frazzled mothers.

“Typical.”  You scanned the nearby tables before deciding you wanted nothing to do with the adolescents and hiked up to the second floor.  

You wished that there was a college closer to you.  A university library would be heaven compared to your small town’s public institution.  It really was a misleading building.  Three huge floors and not a thousand books between them.

Still.  It had internet.  It was reasonably quiet.  Maybe you could get some work done so _Graves would stop texting you_.

You turned the phone off after glancing at his newest message.  You couldn’t type nasty replies if it was off.

Tossing your bag into a corner seat you clapped your hands together and stretched.  You took a tour around the stacks, letting your good friends, the books, calm you down.  You wished you could use them instead of the internet to research what you needed.  But you’d already scoured the building for related texts and had found nothing beyond a few outdated encyclopedias on the first floor.  So internet it was.  Wouldn’t stop you from petting the spines and thumbing through some of the fiction, though.

Your walkabout inevitably brought you to Fitzgerald, and you brushed your fingers over _The Beautiful and Damned_ and _The Great Gatsby_ before pulling the latter from its shelf and flipping through it. You frowned at the pages before shrugging and inhaling its contents.  Instant euphoria.  Who needed crack when you had literature?

You sighed and returned _Gatsby_ to his home.  Back at the corner chair, you pulled out your laptop and connected to the free WiFi.  Taking out your notebook and pen, you settled in to research local petty crimes of the past ten years.  Your article on felony trends in relation to population growth wasn’t going to write itself.  You rolled your eyes.  You doubted even the most pedantic of the rural town’s elite would read it in next week’s newspaper.  Not because it wouldn’t be finished.  No.  You were going to write the best damned report on felony trends in relation to population growth this county had seen in—well, ever.

No, nobody would read it because who fucking cared?  Nothing happened in this patch of farmland. You’d much rather work on your “for funsies” articles for the local gossip rag, but your “real job came first.”

You cracked your knuckles and started typing.

 

Twenty minutes later you’d already had two pages filled with bullet points and a few of the longer articles printed.  You were three pages into one of them, highlighter poised, when a distant whistle coasted to you from the first floor stairs.  The tune was terribly familiar.

You narrowed your eyes as the whistling grew louder, but kept them fixed on the papers in front of you.  Someone had entered onto the second floor and was several stacks away, invisible to your vantage point.  The whistling had yet to cease.

You shook your head and continued reading.  The same sentence cycled over and over, and you belatedly realized you were humming along to _Ain’t We Got Fun_ as it floated over the bookcases.  Your lips twitched in spite of yourself.

You glanced up as the source of the more archaic song sauntered into view.  Ripped jeans and a leather jacket—never was there such a contradiction of imagery and sound. 

The man’s face split into a shit-eating grin when he saw you, effectively cutting off the chorus of the song, and your own smile.  Dimples emerged in his cheeks, but whether this indicated a wolf in sheep’s clothing or vice versa you couldn’t say.  You turned your attention back to the article in your hand, a look of haughty disdain plastered to your face.

He chuckled and kept walking past you, his gum snapping as he brushed past your legs, unnecessarily close.  You watched out of the corner of your eye as he ascended to the third floor, taking his grand old time, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket.

Ten minutes later and you couldn’t concentrate on the dry material any longer.  You stuffed everything into your bag and swung it onto your back.  Pulse pounding you practically skipped up the stairs to the third floor.

It was immensely unimpressive.  Too many shelves were crammed into too small a space, boasting dusty old books no one had ever even heard of.  You’d been up there several times before—but never for the literary content.

Your cheeks burned as you dropped your bag behind a fake potted plant and crept amongst the shelves.  The lighting up here was dim at best, the workspace: laughable.  But what the crowded little cupboard of a room lacked in scholarly merit, it made up for in more _extracurricular_ ways.

You counted the shelves as you went, fingers clenching subconsciously the closer you neared row seven.

You didn’t have time to make even a peep of sound when a large hand grabbed you by the wrist and pulled you against a tall, lean body.  You were pinned against the shelves of old atlases, a gust of breath knocked from you.  The same tall, lean body pressed against you, and your lips were thoroughly assaulted before you could do or say anything else.  Your arms went up around his shoulders, fingers clutching at his jacket.  The smell of mint and leather mixed, further dizzying you as you moaned into your assailant’s mouth. 

His tongue swiped over your lips, which you greedily opened, groaning again as he licked into your mouth.  You hands left his shoulders and fisted into his dirty-blond hair.  His hands snuck up under your shirt, calloused thumbs rubbing deliciously over the soft skin of your stomach.  You bit his lip in retaliation, and felt the same supercilious grin from earlier stretch across his features. 

You were the first to break away from the sloppy foray to catch your breath.  Blue eyes leered mischievously down at you from the shadows.  “Howdy, tootz.”

You smirked back.  “Hey, Dean.”

 

Your first run in with Dean Ambrose in the public library had been quite the day.

It had been roughly two months ago.  You’d just started working with Graves on several projects at work, which had nearly tripled your normally bearable anxiety overnight.  You spent a huge amount of time out of your house, unable to stand the thought inviting him over to work on articles.  It was the only time you’d been happy your internet was awful.  It made a good excuse to keep the prick out of your home.

So you stuck to various locations around town, meeting outside of work only when strictly necessary, and for as little time as possible.  The library was a safe haven of sorts.  You’d always found peace there, but it wasn’t one of your confirmed meeting places, so you latched onto it as a sanctuary away from home.

You’d been sitting at one of the work tables on the second floor of the library.  It was storming outside, so the building was virtually empty save a few people fleeing the rain on the first floor.  The internet was being spotty due to the weather, dragging your further and further into a foul mood.  You pushed your laptop away and turned your attention to the notes you’d been able to take before the storm slammed into the town.

Thoroughly engrossed, it took you a moment to realize that someone had taken up the chair opposite yours.  When a foot kicked your own, your eyes snapped up.  Why hadn’t this person taken one of the empty tables…

The man was an image to behold in such a respectable setting.

You watched him as he flipped idly through his book.  His large hands handled the pages carefully given his otherwise fidgety nature.  You could tell he was jiggling his leg up and down under the table, and he kept up a jaunty whistle.  You were almost smiling when intense blue eyes flicked up to meet yours. 

You averted your gaze and shuffled your papers.

“Whatcha’ workin’ on darlin’?”

You cocked a brow and looked back at him suspiciously, trying to ignore the stutter of your heartbeat.

“Articles.  For work.”

Dimples unveiled themselves as he grinned impishly.  “Specifically?”

Your lip twitched and you set the papers on the table.  “I’m researching for an article on domestic versus out of state crop harvests and how both affect grocery store prices.”

He blinked at you before barking out a laugh.  You glanced nervously around, but no one else was on the floor.  “That’s fucking boring as shit.”

You raised your chin and continued organizing your papers.

“Who reads that shit?”

You sighed and put your hands on top the papers and looked fully into his eyes.  “Nobody I know, that’s for sure.”

You swallowed as he leaned back in his seat, chuckling.  His black tank top rode up his waist so you could see a toned stomach.  You quickly looked back to his face.

“You write for an audience you don’t even know?”

“Oh, I know them well enough,” you said.  “I just hang out with a vastly different crowd.”

His blue eyes glittered at your tone. 

He went silent for a while, and you continued reading.  Or.  You continued pretending to read.  Your eyes kept drifting back to how the tank top clung to his body, emphasizing every hard line of him.  His arms were equally distracting.  Every time he turned a page you could see a muscle shift under his skin.  You tried to sound nonchalant when you remarked,

“You don’t look the literary type.”

A raspy chuckle had you frowning at him.  He winked.  “Stereotypes hurt everybody, darlin’.”

You snorted and pulled your laptop back over to you, hoping the storm had let up enough for you to properly search the internet.  Your fingers didn’t seem to want to work right.  You scowled and began violently typing away, wincing when your distracting neighbor chuckled again.  The sound crept up your spine in the worst ways.  You found yourself berating your apprehension over work, cursing Graves for making an otherwise painless job infuriating, and generally aching for some kind of reprieve from this waking nightmare.

Across from you, your table mate stretched luxuriously, groaning obscenely as his back cracked.

Perhaps this was an opportunity best taken.  Desperation had a way of making you bold.

You bit your lip as you drew your foot up along his leg.  It immediately ceased jiggling and you felt a marked change in the atmosphere of the second floor.  One not produced by the storm still howling outside.

“Mmmmm…What’samatter, kitten?  Not getting enough love at home?”

You swallowed, fingers lightly tapping over the keys of the computer, wondering if you should just pull the trigger.  You flicked your eyes to his, and then down to his mouth which curved into a slow, shameless grin.

“Call me kitten again.”

Your throaty demand caught both of you by surprise.  You felt your cheeks flushing, and saw his eyes widen infinitesimally.  His stubbled jaw tilted back as he dissected you with a once over.  He glanced beyond you to the stairway to the third floor.

“Anybody go up there?”  He asked lightly.  His blue eyes froze you to your chair.  His smile was like the grinning maul of a wolf about to leap.  “Kitten.”

You gently closed your laptop, shaking your head in answer.  You watched as he stood and stretched again.  And then he sauntered his way off to the third floor.

What were you about to do in this very public library?  You wondered to yourself.  Follow the man upstairs, hope no one else was up there, and then…what?  Ask him his opinion on the old mercantile trade route maps?

_Hardly_ , your mind whispered delightedly.

You inhaled deeply as you stowed your books and papers in your bag.  You slipped your laptop in alongside everything and stood.  Were you woman enough to go through with this?  You glanced longingly at the foot of the stairs.

_We could get caught.  Probably will get caught._

_Have you ever seen anyone go up there?  No.  What’s the problem here?_

_It’s…uncivilized._

_I_ know _._  

You checked behind you, to the mouth of the stairway leading back down to the busy section of the library.  There wasn’t even anyone on this floor.  And he hadn’t come back down.  So, he must not have found anyone amongst the shelves.  You were far too mousy for this…

_Stereotypes hurt everybody._

You shouldered your bag and strode to the third floor.

Once inside the main section, you dropped your bag beside a fake plant and crept forward.  The lights weren’t bright up here.  Just enough so you wouldn’t run into shelves or trip over your own feet.  The shelving was cramped and narrow; roughly 12 aisles deep.  All that was kept up here was out of date county histories and maps that the historical society hadn’t wanted.  _Thank god for the hoarders that ran the library_ , you thought as you looked down each aisle pensively. 

You found him in row seven.  One that would become your preferred rendezvous in the coming months; though you didn’t know that now as he grinned at you.  His eyes slid over your cautious frame. 

“Never had fun in a public place, have ya tootz?”

You halted before him, a decent two feet of space between you.  You crossed your arms over your stomach.  “Outside of an intense game of footsies?  No.”

This made him laugh.  A little too loudly, for your nerves.  You glanced around the corner of the shelves. 

A hand landed on your shoulder and pulled you around.  You were flush against him, your cry trapped by his other hand over your mouth. 

“Rule one,” he whispered, breath warming your face.  You were trapped in his eyes.  “Don’t think too much.  Don’t think at all.”

His hand left your mouth and palmed over your other shoulder and around the nape of your neck.  The other somehow had come to the hem of your shirt.  His touch startled you.  Warm, firm fingers cupped the skin of your waist.  You gasped, and he brought his lips close to yours.   “Rule two, this is a library.  Shhh.”

Your retort was cut off by his mouth.  It was a standard kiss.  A test.  It was soft; gauging.  Until it wasn’t.  Until he sensed something in your stance that you hadn’t consciously noticed.  Until he backed you against the shelf and rucked your shirt up part way so he could feel more of your skin.  Until his mouth was waging a small war on your own.

He was right, you’d consider later.  It was best not to think of anything at all when a man’s tongue was performing magic against yours.  When his hands kneaded into your lower back and fisted in your shirt and teased along your shorts’ waistband.  Best to just close your eyes and languish in the moment.  Best to let him work.

Your hands tangled in his shaggy hair as you kissed him back just as greedily.  All thoughts of your stupid articles and your stupid coworker obliterated from memory.  You sighed against his lips.  You wanted to be closer to him.  Wrapped up in him.  Taken out of your reality and dipped into his, like a strawberry into chocolate.  You moaned quietly at the thought of him and chocolate. 

Your hands went down his back, over the tank top, nails scratching lightly.  When you found his hem, your fingers danced underneath to his lower back. 

He pulled away from you by a hair’s breadth.  You were both breathing hard.  You felt him toying with your belt buckle.  “Name’s Dean,” he murmured against your mouth.  “Case you needed something to scream.”

He kissed you again, exploring your mouth carefully.  Your back was starting to smart from the shelves, but Dean was just now getting your buckle undone, so that thought went the way of your productivity. 

“Thought you said this was a library,” you gasped when he let up on you.  The sound and sensation of your zipper and buttons being opened made you shudder.  Your hips pressed forward of their own accord.  You were hot.  Much too hot.  You couldn’t fathom making a single sound up here, where everyone below might hear your dirty deeds.  You clenched your teeth when one of Dean’s devious hands groped into your panties.

“Yeah, well.  Fuck rules.”

A finger slid into you, and your back jolted from the shelving.  Your arms scrambled to go around Dean’s shoulders.  You sucked in a sharp breath as a second finger joined the first.  You were embarrassed at how wet you’d become, how easily his fingers had sunk into you, and how good they felt as he played with you.

“Shit, kitten,” he huffed into your neck, where his head had bowed.  “You must _not_ be getting good lovin’ at home.”

You dug your nails into his shoulders and thrust against his hand.  You swallowed hard, praying you wouldn’t make a sound.  This was the most hellish quiet game you’d ever participated in. 

Dean’s fingers curled and a little mewl slipped out.  Your heart was pounding.  Someone was going to hear you.  He curled them again.  You grinded against him.  Another teeny moan escaped. 

“Purrin’ ain’t all that loud, darlin’,” he observed.

You were going to have a fucking orgasm in the public library.  Your body had no qualms for this.  Your mind was struggling.  Half of it cringing at your sacrilege, the other half already screaming at the thrill of it.  The latter half won out, though luckily you didn’t scream.

Your breathy sigh of release whooshed out of you as you grinded down on Dean’s roving fingers one more time.  If someone had been on the same floor, they’d have heard you.  Dean whispered encouragements in your ear.  Filthy things that could well have coaxed another orgasm from you on their own.

Once you were down from your high, Dean removed his hand and popped his fingers into his mouth.  You gaped at him through half-lidded eyes.  He smirked at you.  “Like, candy,” he said with a wink.

You closed your eyes and let out a little guff of laughter.  What had this day even become?  Not that you were complaining.  You opened your eyes when you felt Dean zipping you back up and buckling your belt.  You frowned up at him, questioning.

“As much as I’d like to fuck you all over this library, it’s getting late,” he said by way of answer.  You looked at your watch, eyes going wide.  You had five minutes until the building closed.  He continued, “Maybe I’ll see you around soon, kitten.  Work off a bit more of that job stress.  Spice up that boring crap.”

You watched him waltz his way out of the aisle and down the stairs, whistling merrily.

 

You did see Dean again.  You visited the library for your work research at least once a week, if not every other week.  You didn’t want to make him an unbreakable habit.  But he was usually there, without fail, whenever work seemed to be drowning you in worry or ennui.  The third floor became your nasty secret, and it wasn’t long before the guilt stopped flaring at all.

The second time you met Dean, you’d returned the favor from the previous week and given him one hell of a blow job, if you could say so yourself.  He hadn’t said much, but you’d thought that a good thing.  His glazed eyes and stuttered breathing had said quite a lot. 

You didn’t actually fuck him until the fifth time on the third floor.

You’d both been in a mood that day, and you’d moved toward the stairs as if both of you knew exactly what was going to happen and couldn’t fucking climb the sixteen steps fast enough.  Dean had had you against the shelf of row seven so fast, your head spun; you grabbing at his belt, him shoving your skirt up and panties down.  You hadn’t even said two words to each other, before he was inside you, rocking his hips in a frenzy. 

Your arm went up and you gripped one of the shelves in your hand, the other on his shoulder.  Your legs were around his waist, panties lost to the floor somewhere.  He was a terror.  His face pressed into your neck, his right arm supporting your weight, his left hand on the shelf like yours, shoulders bunching as he pounded into you.  You basked in the feeling of him, mildly wondering what was on his mind that he seemed so unhinged today.  His weight shifted, tilting you at a new angle, and you gasped.  _Thinking isn’t for now_ , you reminded yourself.  Feeling was for now.  Feeling his breath in your ear, his straining muscles under your fingertips.  Your mouth went dry when his length dragged over your sweet spot.

“Dean,” you said, voice small and strained.  He _growled_ in response.  The shelf shifted under the weight of your bodies.  Dean didn’t notice.  You hadn’t realized they weren’t built into the floor.  Your cheeks were staining red, you knew.  But you were getting close and you could tell he was, too.  His breathing had changed.

You tested limits you’d never would have dared a month ago.  “Dean,” you groaned, your voice carrying in the small space.  He bit your neck and pressed impossibly closer.  “Dean,” you said again, arching what little you could.  Your nails slid down his back, over the shirt you hadn’t removed in your eagerness.

His tongue swept over the spot he had bitten, and he whined. 

His name became a chant on your tongue.  “Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean.”  Each more stunted than the last the closer you came to the edge. 

“Come.”  His wrecked whisper did it for you.  You hugged him to you tightly as your shook apart, moaning loudly—much too loudly—in that hot little room.  He grunted as you seized around him, and released in a shuddering breath.

“Fuck,” he muttered, nose brushing your jaw as he kissed your neck.  You let him go as your heart-rate slowed, enjoying the softness of the moment.

Once you were all cleaned up and dressed like nothing had happened, you remembered your volume.  You blushed furiously and started sweeping atlases into your arms.

“What are you doing?”  He asked in amusement. 

“I have to look like I’ve been doing actual work.  Just in case someone’s downstairs.”

He was all smiles as he followed you out of the room.  “You’ve never done that before.”

“Yeah, well,” you mumbled as you practically galloped down the stairs, grasping for straws.  “I’ve never been so loud before.”

An irritating chuckled followed you to the second floor.

Where there were far too many people milling around.  You halted, squeezing the maps to your chest like they might create a shield.  No one spared you a glance, save one older woman at the closest desk.  She was eyeing you.  Like she knew.  Like she knew what the two of you had done up there in the abandoned stacks.  _Oh my god she knew._

Dean came to your side and looked between her and you.  He shrugged, and then addressed the woman.  “Geography takes it out of her.”

The woman spun back to her novel, you threw a scandalized look at Dean, and pelted through the room.  You left the maps on the desk downstairs, feigning sudden illness so the nice, innocent librarian took pity on you.

You didn’t come back to the library for three weeks.

 

Sometimes, before going to the third floor, the two of you would just talk.  Mostly about your work and how much you hated it and Graves.  How you wish you could find something else.  Something like freelance writing that paid well.  You’d always saw yourself writing entertaining pieces for popular magazines or journals.  Not for the local newspaper that had about ten diehard fans aged eighty or older. 

“You should,” Dean said after one of your tirades.  “I don’t think it’s worth it to hate your livelihood.  Not when you depend on it.”

You cocked your head at him.  It was a thought that crossed your mind at least twice a day, but hearing Dean say it still felt different.  Sweet, even.  Like the future was right there and you could grab it right up. 

You sighed.  “Maybe someday.  I get closer to just fucking quitting every day I have to work with Graves.”

Dean scoffed.  “Why the fuck do they still have this guy on retainer?  He ain’t well liked from what you’ve said.”

“Because he’s _eloquent_ ,” you sneered at your laptop screen.  “The bosses love him because he’s sarcastic and snarky and dresses well.  He writes what they want to read.  And lords it over the rest of us.  Poor Byron finally quit last week.”

Dean’s hand slid across the table from where he was seated beside you.  He laced his fingers through yours.  “Fuck ‘im,” he grumbled.  He seemed oddly upset you were this worked up over your problems.  “He ain’t worth a second of your energy.”

You looked into Dean’s blue eyes for a long moment.  No one at work had ever given you even a nanosecond of a chance to vent.  To call Graves’ habits into question.  To share that you’d wanted to do so much more.  And here was Dean, reading you so well in your town’s paltry excuse for a library.

You squeezed his hand and practically hauled him up the stairs.

 

Last week you were almost caught.  Really caught, not just under suspicion.

You’d already come once that afternoon.  You’d spent a glorious spate of time with Dean’s face between your thighs, until you were shaking with pleasure, keening softly for him to push you over the edge.  His hands gripped your ass and he ate you out like it was his god damn job to make you come as hard as possible.  One leg was thrown over his shoulder, and your head was thrown back as his tongue wrote fucking sonnets on your clit.

You’d barely kept a guttural groan in check when you did come. 

And now you were pressed against the bookshelf, chest-first this time—something new and utterly arousing—Dean taking his grand time in screwing you senseless.  He was shirtless, as were you, and the heat of his body across your back was doing exhilarating things to your head.  His lips ghosted over the nape of your neck, and wandering hands cupped your breasts, thumb flicking over your nipples gently.  You curved your back, pushing into his palms.  “Dean,” you whispered, loving every breath out of his lips…

He went still.  Your eyes snapped open.

Someone had come to the third floor.

You froze, listening.  They were in the first aisle.  You shot a panicked look at Dean over your shoulder.  He wasn’t looking at you, though.  His head was canted as he, too, listened to the trespasser.  They were in the second aisle now.  You could tell because they’d opened a filing cabinet.  The only filing cabinet was in that aisle.  You twitched against Dean, trying to motion for him to quietly pull out.

He didn’t move.  You tapped his arm fervently.  Pulse pounding.  The person was still in the second aisle.  The cabinet still being rifled through. 

Dean looked down at you.  You nearly groaned at the look in his eye.

He slowly circled his hips.

You clenched your eyes shut and bit your lip.  This was not happening.  He couldn’t even think for one second…

But he was.  And he did.  He pinched your nipples and drew out of you, only to grind back in. 

“Shh,” he breathed in your ear, quieter than a whisper. 

You bit your lip so hard out of nerves, you thought it would bleed.  Your hands scrambled across his arms.  Dug into his skin when he licked your neck and canted his hips just so.  The person was closer.  In the third aisle?  Or the fourth? 

There weren’t many books on the shelves, they’d see you if they made it to the sixth aisle.  Oh, god, they were going to find you.  See you.  See you being absolutely ruined…

You felt Dean’s grinning teeth on your ear.  He was going to have nail marks in his arms.  Deep ones.  One of his hands dropped and shifted your leg so he could sink deeper.  You swallowed your gasps.  _Why why why why why_ …

Why did it feel so good?  Why did he feel so good?  So much better than all those days before?  

_Because you’re about to be caught_ , a gleeful voice sang in your head.  God, you were a glutton for punishment.

They were closer.  Closer now.  Aisle five?  Had to be.  They would see you through the shelves in aisle six.  You knew this room like the back of your hand.  Dean was still going.  A little harder now, but still nearly silent.  How was he doing this?  You wanted to moan so badly.  Wanted to cuss Dean out so badly.  Wanted to come so badly.

Dean circled his hips again, and cupped your mound.  You puffed out a breath.  It seemed to ricochet around the room to your ears, but there wasn’t any sign that the stranger had heard it.  They were still fooling with the books in aisle five.   _Closer, closer, closer…_

And then Dean was there, where he needed to be to get your insides fluttering.  You felt it curling from the base of your spine, and spark under your navel.  You tapped on his arm again, praying he’d stop, prepared to commit manslaughter if he did.  His free hand slid over your mouth just in time.

You weren’t sure if the orgasm that blew through your body was more intense than any other simply because Dean had a talent for making each one better than the last, or if it was the sheer fight to keep your ravenous noises locked inside.  You didn’t utter a syllable of sound as you came and Dean worked you through it.  You didn’t cry out when he rocked a second one out of you.  Or, third, rather, if you were counting earlier today.  You just closed your eyes and rode the wave.

If you were any judge, you’d say it was Dean’s best orgasm, too.

In the silent, shaking aftermath, the two of you stayed still.  And the stranger, still somehow unaware of what had just happened two aisles down, found what they were looking for and left the third floor.

You inhaled deeply, the oxygen nearly as sweet as your pleasure, and let out a wounded groan.  Dean laughed.  You slapped his arm.  Not very hard.  You were shaking.

“Fucking hell,” you croaked.

“I need a shower after that one,” Dean agreed.

You looked at him.

“I just.”

“Speechless, I know.”  His expression changed, voice dropping, and you were a little unnerved.  “I didn’t know if you’d make it, kitten.  You did good.”

You swallowed, flustered as his eyes went over you.  It was time to get dressed.  Yup.  Definitely time to get dressed. 

He slapped your ass as you bent to retrieve your panties.  The sound reverberated obnoxiously, and you yelped.  He just snickered.

 

And now here you were with Dean in your aisle, simply enjoying a leisurely make out session, neither of you feeling rushed at all.  The leather of his jacket rubbed against your arms and you hummed contentedly.  His hands laced in your hair, and your hands on his chest.  You knew you were breaking rule one, but you’d been thinking.  You were going to take your unfinished articles to work after this little tryst.

You pulled back from Dean’s embrace.  “I’m quitting today,” you announced.

A smirk grew on his lips.  “Bout fuckin’ time, kitten.”

“I’m going to tell Graves to go fuck himself.”

“I approve.”

You kissed him again, sighing as he swept his tongue over yours.  “I might not need the library so much anymore.”

He pulled back, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes.  “We had a good run,” he offered.

“The best goddamn run,” you said, looping your arms around his neck.  “I didn’t think I’d look up one day and see your strolling in here making my all-time favorite fantasy a reality.”  You paused as he smiled softly at you.  You pretended to ponder.  “I think any job would come with stress, though.  And there’s birthdays to think of.  Holidays.”  You looked back at him, to see him grinning evilly.

“Libraries are closed on holidays,” he pointed out.

You shrugged.  “We’ll think of something.”  You stepped back from him.  “I hate to cut this short, but I have a job to quit and an asshole to emasculate.”

Dean laughed, his tongue peeking from between his teeth.  “Get someone to film it for me.”

“Will do, babe.”  You flashed him a smile as you the two of you made your way down the stairs.  “Can you feed Gatsby when you get home?” 


End file.
